tell. That’s not to say that everyone loves snakes, or that stories of encounters always have a happy ending. But for whatever reason, people share a universal fascination for reptiles like Damien. The history of the Sunshine State is rife with examples of how people have tried to capitalize on our interest in snakes—using them as stage props and marketing gimmicks for tourist attractions, zoos, wildlife shows, and the like. And they’ve been successful, largely because few of us are truly ambivalent about reptiles. Love them or hate them, an attraction exists that I would never profess to understand.
Perhaps it is this attraction, though, that manifests itself as concern on this day. Throughout the event, several people inquire as to when Damien ate last. “I’m not sure,” comes my reply. “We captured him only last week in the park.” Conversation then shifts to inquiries about when I expect to feed him in the future. “Never,” comes my admittedly heartless reply. My guests seem puzzled at first, but comprehension quickly sets in. Presumably just to be certain, they then ask me what I intend to do with Damien.
There are some things that I would rather not do in the course of my job, but am expected to do nonetheless—and carrying forth such conversations certainly counts as one. After all, I spend the majority of my time extolling the virtues of a treasured landscape, attempting to instill an appreciation for south Florida’s cultural and natural heritage. I usually do so in full “park ranger” regalia—green pants, gray shirt, hiking boots, shoulder patch, and gold-plated badge. The flat hat that sits gingerly upon my head casts me as an iconic symbol of environmental stewardship and protection. I am among the ranks of thousands of rangers around the country who work daily to protect some of America’s most precious resources. And with any luck, I can encourage others to adopt a similar ethic of conservation.
Yet, the issue of invasive species can sometimes cast us in a different light. The truth, as I share with my visitors that day, is that Damien is simply not long for this world. After our display at Fairchild Tropical Botanic Garden, one of two things may happen to Damien. A select few of the pythons captured from the Everglades are implanted with radio transmitters and again released into the park. These few become living experiments that help scientists learn a great deal about how these animals move and behave in the Glades. They are also instrumental in helping track down additional pythons in the field. To date, of the more than 1,700 pythons that have been captured and documented by park biologists over the last decade, only a handful of snakes have been used for this purpose.
Thus, odds are that Damien will find himself in the company of those much less fortunate. Like the vast majority of pythons recovered alive, he will be euthanized. Once expired, he might then be taken to a nearby lab, stretched across a large, cold table and eviscerated. His limp remains will be used to populate a growing data set that feeds our knowledge of the species and informs management decisions. It is a gruesome, yet necessary, reality—one that seldom sits well with the likes of those presently ogling my display.
And so a familiar round of well-intentioned questions begins. “Couldn’t you put him up for adoption, or sell him to someone for a pet?” comes one suggestion. “Why can’t they be captured and sent back to their native Asia for release? Aren’t they endangered there?” returns another. “With so many running around out there right now, what’s one more?” resounds another compassionate plea. Their inquiries are clearly motivated by genuine compassion for the living, sentient being stirring helplessly in its cage, unaware that a day of reckoning draws near.
A poignant testament to his future fate lies before him for all to see: covering the full length of a wooden banquet table, and cascading down either side, I have unfurled the preserved skin of a nearly 15-foot python recovered from the park only a year before. As my visitors sample the rough texture of the mottled brown hide with their fingers, I answer their queries with a rhetorical thought of my own: is it realistic to suppose that thousands of 15-foot pythons could be readily adopted, or transported and transplanted overseas, or rereleased into a landscape we are spending billions of dollars to restore? Any such endeavor would necessarily entail significant risks, considerable costs, or potentially unintended consequences.
What has led us down the path that now mandates the wanton destruction of strikingly beautiful creatures like Damien? Why must organizations and individuals, in benevolent service to our land and resources, now serve as judge, jury, and executioners to thousands of living pythons? And why, despite the size and fearsome reputation of such large snakes, does it wrench the gut, tug on the heart strings, and—for some—seem to generate nothing but bad karma? Indeed, what brings us to this unfortunate crossroads, where every avenue results in a loss?
By two o’clock, the day’s scheduled talks have finished. On either side of me, my fellow exhibitors begin to break down their portable exhibits and pack up their materials. I take a cue from them and begin to collect my own goods, packing them away in a neat, methodical manner as I’ve done so many times before. Though I am certain to find myself at another similar event again in the very near future, I’m equally certain that Damien, my alluring assistant for the day, will not be joining me.
1
Snakes on a Sawgrass Plain
I remember being tired, and a bit bored, by late afternoon on May 22, 2001. It had been a typical spring day at the Ernest Coe Visitor Center, the main contact station in Everglades National Park. During the morning hours, I had spoken with literally hundreds of folks who intended to spend the day touring the Glades by car, foot, and boat. Sporting my usual gray and green uniform, I spent most of the morning greeting the arriving masses, handing out maps and brochures, swearing in Junior Rangers, and answering the most common question in national parks across the country: “Where’s the bathroom?”
By midday, as the relentless south Florida sun swaddled the marsh in oppressive warmth, the arrival of visitors became predictably slow and sporadic. By late afternoon, only a trickle of hearty souls ventured in to take advantage of the waning daylight. During such times, I would often keep myself occupied by cleaning exhibits, stocking publications, or, more often than not, reading a book recently purchased from the visitor center gift shop. While I don’t recall the details of what I had been doing that day, I remember my boredom palpably giving way to curiosity as a young couple dragged a very large plastic container into the building.
The container itself would have been unremarkable, were it not bound tightly with light rope and perforated by crudely made holes in its top—cues that hinted something was alive inside. Despite well-publicized legal prohibitions on the capture, damage, harassment, or removal of plants and animals found in the park, it is not unusual to have some individuals innocently tote entire plants into the visitor center hoping for a positive identification. Children, in particular, are often blissfully unaware of their transgressions as they innocently pick flowers or scamper to capture the strange lizards and insects they encounter. And visitors have also been known to occasionally bring injured wildlife found in the park to the visitor center, under the erroneous assumption that the park is in the business of rehabilitation. I expected to be greeted by a similar situation as the pair of twenty-somethings made a beeline towards me.
Resting his heavy load awkwardly on my desk, the young man greeted me with a smile and proceeded to relay, in detail, how he and his girlfriend had stumbled upon and captured a large Burmese python earlier in the day near Mahogany Hammock—a popular walking trail located in roughly the dead center of the park. Recognizing that such a discovery was (at the time) a fairly odd occurrence, the pair had stopped at the visitor center before leaving the park to report the incident. It was their intention, they explained, to take the snake into town to an acquaintance in the business of breeding that particular species—no doubt a service to the park from their perspective.
Though the couple was well-mannered and seemingly acting in good faith, a great deal of suspicion immediately, and perhaps unfairly, stirred within me. Years of working in public parks has cultivated in me a healthy distrust that prompts me to be alert for people entering protected areas
